


Lay Hands On Me

by sabinelagrande



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Dom Phil Coulson, Dom/sub, Dominant Masochism, M/M, Nipple Play, Painplay, Sadomasochism, Sub Clint Barton, Submissive Sadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2012-10-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 19:21:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/542971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabinelagrande/pseuds/sabinelagrande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once you wrap your mind around it, it's really very simple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lay Hands On Me

The way these things are supposed to go, Clint's pretty sure, is with a lot of misunderstandings and drama, maybe a little gnashing of teeth. But he and Phil, for all that Clint messes with him, have always been on the same level, of one mind. So one night, Clint said, "I want to sub for you," and another night, Phil said, "I want you to hurt me," and here they are, in bed, ready for it, another night of exactly what they want.

Phil is sitting up against the headboard, regarding Clint, who's kneeling in front of him on the bed. Phil is making him wait, like he usually does. Clint, of course, hates and loves it, the anticipation coiling up inside of him. But Phil smiles at him, grabbing him by his hair and pulling him in to kiss him. "Fingernails first," he says, letting him go.

Clint puts his hands on Phil's shoulders, smoothing over them to start, his thumbs tracking over Phil's collarbones. He curls his hands so that his fingernails are pressing into Phil's skin, and he drags them slowly down Phil's chest. It leaves pleasing lines, ones that blanch at first and then turn pinkish-red, but he knows that it doesn't really hurt, not much, not on Phil's scale of pain. This is just a tease, a warm-up, a nice build to what's coming. This is Clint's favorite kind of game, his hands and nails and teeth on Phil's skin. He'll go after him with all sorts of toys and implements and enjoy it plenty, but this is so much more intimate, connected.

He makes his way down Phil's stomach, all the way down to the skin around his cock; he doesn't linger, moving back upwards, avoiding all the ticklish spots, drawing patterns that only he knows. He dares to scratch his nails over Phil's nipples, a silent question.

"Yes," Phil says, giving him a look that says he's onto Clint's scheme. Clint takes his nipples into his fingers, playing with them lightly to start, glancing over them with his thumbs. They're nicely sensitive, enough so that Phil jumps a little when Clint finally pinches him, just a little one to start with. He toys with them a little more before he pinches harder, holding it longer. He lets go, only to start again; this time it's a serious one, hard as he'll go.

"Harder than that," Phil says.

Clint frowns. He's not sure he can, if he can even hold on, if it's a good idea. "Sir-"

Phil gives him a hard look, one eyebrow raised. "Are you questioning me?"

Clint quickly tightens his fingers, drawing a moan from Phil. "No, sir."

"That's right," Phil says. His hips jerk as Clint twists, as far as he can without his fingers slipping off. When he thinks he can't possibly hold on any longer, he lets go all at once, and Phil groans at the pain, the way it crashes back in.

Clint's struck with an idea, hopefully one Phil will like. Before Phil is quite recovered, Clint brings both his hands down, slapping him hard in the chest, the sound of skin on skin ringing out, and Phil grits his teeth. Clint thinks for a moment that he's gone too far, taken initiative where he shouldn't.

"Again," Phil tells him.

Clint does it again, and again; he doesn't stop until Phil makes him, until Phil's chest is red. It makes such a nice contrast against his pale skin, and it makes Clint's mouth start to water. "Right here," Phil says, pointing to a spot just above his left nipple. "Go."

Clint circles the spot with a fingernail, digging in right in the center like a bull's-eye. He only lets himself admire it for a little bit, afraid of retribution if he stalls, before biting on it hard, sucking for all he's worth. Phil laces his hand in the back of Clint's hair, panting, crying out as Clint sinks his teeth in. Phil's skin tastes so good, but the thought of the mark he's going to leave is almost better, the fact that Phil will allow him the privilege, let Clint give him something to wear as proof. 

Better than that, the best, is the pain he's inflicting, the happiness of it, the way he's bringing Phil just what he wants and getting his reward at the same time. This is absolutely the best scam Clint is running here, being good by doing the thing that he gets off on the most, selflessness and selfishness mixed up together.

Clint turns his head, resting his cheek on Phil's chest, very close to overwhelmed. "Sir, I-"

"No one told you to stop," he says, his voice scratchy, and he might be just as bad off as Clint is.

"Yessir," Clint says, going back to work, because the very last thing he wants is Phil's disapproval. He's stuck between a rock and a hard place, but he's going to try as best as he can to hang on.

Phil pulls him away suddenly, dragging him up and kissing him, commanding and fierce but not without a tinge of desperation. "Suck me," he orders, shoving him down, and Clint takes him into his mouth as quick as he can; he wants to be as good as possible, but he also knows that when Phil's done, there's a good chance he'll get to get off, if he's allowed to get off at all tonight.

He settles his hands on Phil's thighs, his fingernails digging in just slightly to start. He knows exactly what Phil expects out of him, what he wants in a situation like this. Clint rakes his fingernails down the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, and Phil moans, putting his hand on the back of Clint's head and moving him faster, his hips coming up to meet his mouth. Clint just takes it, trying to keep enough brainpower to keep pinching and scratching. He gets a really good pinch in, catching his skin and twisting hard, and Phil yells, holding Clint's head still. "Drink it," Phil pants, pulsing into Clint's mouth. "Swallow every drop."

Clint does his best, and when Phil finally lets him go, he coughs hard, but he still shows Phil his empty mouth, proud of himself. "That's a good boy," Phil says breathlessly, patting his shoulder. He shuts his eyes, relaxing for a moment while Clint squirms. When he opens his eyes again, they're glassy, satisfied, and he gives Clint a lazy smirk. "I guess you want to come."

"Yessir," he says; he'd beg for it in a heartbeat, but he hasn't been told to, and that could very well end with him being made to beg for twenty minutes and then denied.

"Put your hand on your cock," he says. "I want to see you fuck it." Clint does what he's told, and only what he's told. He grabs his cock, but he doesn't move his hips, not yet, not without permission. Phil just looks at him for a while, toying with him. "Start moving."

Clint does it gratefully, thrusting his hips into the circle of his hand. It takes about ten seconds for his thighs to get sore, between this position and kneeling for so long, but he doesn't let that stop him, not when he's so close.

"You can have one thing," Phil tells him, and Clint bites his lip; he must have done good to get a present like this. "Only one hand. Count to thirty and come. Do it."

Of course his reward is mean as well as satisfying, because Phil knows full well that Clint might not even remember how to count. Clint knows exactly what he wants though, just what he needs. He reaches out with shaky fingers, pressing hard into the mark on Phil's chest. Phil hisses, and Clint shuts his eyes tight, squeezing on his cock to keep from losing it entirely.

He swallows hard, his mouth dry. "One," he says, "two-" and at five he wants to die, and at sixteen he thinks he has, and at twenty-four it's a wonder that he's even forming words, and then he reaches "Thir-ahh, oh god, _Phil_ -" and comes, streaking Phil and the bedsheets with it. He collapses, sitting back hard, his chest heaving.

When he's a remotely functional human being again, he leans down and carefully licks up his come; Phil doesn't like messy, not unless the point of making the mess is to watch Clint clean it up. "Come here," Phil tells him, moving down the bed a little so that he can rest his head on the pillows, and Clint joins him, burying his face in his shoulder. Phil makes a noise when Clint puts a hand on his chest; Phil picks it up and moves it to his stomach, and Clint's dick gives a little stir at the thought of how the pain is going to stick to him. "You did good."

"Thank you, sir," Clint says.

Phil runs a hand up his side. "The pleasure was all mine."

"That's a lie," Clint says, grinning.

"Maybe a little bit of one," Phil allows. He takes Clint's face in his hand, kissing him slowly, lazily, the way he does when he's feeling sated. "You make me happy," he says softly, and Clint turns away. Phil isn't having it; he grabs Clint by the back of the neck, shaking him. "If I want to compliment you, I will, and you'll listen."

"Yes, sir. I'm glad I make you happy," Clint says; it feels hard and weird. "That's what I want."

"See?" Phil says, pulling him forward and kissing him. "Not that hard."

"Could be worse," Clint tells him. He kisses Phil again, not-so-subtly ending the conversation. Right now it's better to just be here together, focusing on what they agree on: they agree on each other, on what they are, that what they are is just right together.


End file.
